


the horseman of his age

by noahfronsenburg



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Inappropriate Humor, Innuendo, Multi, Power Dynamics, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-26 00:12:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15651789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahfronsenburg/pseuds/noahfronsenburg
Summary: “Yes,” Attolia agrees, “That well known assassin, a horse.”





	the horseman of his age

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Turwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turwen/gifts).
  * Inspired by [two birds in the hand](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8941582) by [noahfronsenburg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahfronsenburg/pseuds/noahfronsenburg). 



> this was a request! enjoy some good costis squirming

It is only after the King wakes up that he finds the energy to say: “I did not fall. I was _thrown_.”

The Queen, who is sitting at his bedside, her face a mask of dispassion, stabs her needle into the pair of his trousers she is mending: the very pair that he so recently tore in his accident. “Yes,” she agrees, “That well known assassin, _a horse_.” Her voice totally devoid of any emotion bar _sarcasm_. It is biting. Were it turned on Costis, he would try very hard to be a part of the wall.

The King hasn’t got enough self-preservation instincts for that. “Take it out and have it shot,” he says limply, sprawled half-over the side of the divan that he was dumped onto in his sitting room as soon as it was clear it was a minor concussion and some bruising and nothing else. Costis can judge the man all he wants; his god’s devotion holds true. Thieves can only die in a fall, even if that fall is _upwards_ , if Eugenidies abandons them. And the King hasn’t been abandoned yet. “Better yet, let the kitchens have it. Horse stew. I am told it’s a delicacy in some parts of the world.”

“The horse was a _gift_. As part of the Sounisian treaty.”

The King sniffs. “I am certain Sounis would find some humor in the situation.”

Attolia does not rise to the bait. In her anger, she has begun to take to needlework, and it is for that reason she now sits darning the hole in the King’s torn breeches. More than once she has snapped, her tongue acidic, that while she may not stab Attolis, she _may_ stab his clothes. Far be it for her to be the sort of homespun downtrodden wife; she is gritting her teeth into dust as she envisions putting a knife into the King’s rump, no doubt.

“What do you think, Costis?” The King continues, flippant. Costis, who is still pretending to be furniture, raises one eyebrow, patient. “Can I have the horse killed? Would you do it for me, my dear?”

Costis bites back the infusion of warmth in his chest and sighs. “Sire, if we are going to take to putting to death any poor confused animal that causes you to fall from the saddle, the Queen would be best off starting with you.”

The room is totally silent. The King is staring at Costis, his mouth partway open and his expression vacillating between something akin to fury and unbridled mirth. The Queen has frozen, her needle partway through the cloth, and eventually she, too, turns to look at him, her fair brow furrowed and her lips pursed. “Costis,” she says, but her voice is neither icy with anger nor hot with indignation.

He hides his grin in his chest, glad for their allowances on his part.

 

 

Costis does not think through the potential ramifications of his actions until four days later, when the King is at last well enough to be roused from his bed (or divan, or floor, or desktop, or shoe-mat, for he has draped himself artfully over all of the above since his injury) to attend a Privy Council meeting. It is one of the many such that drag on very late into the night, the world in such a state of shit that it takes all the greatest minds the maximum strength to persevere, and when the clock chimes midnight Costis finds that even his energy is beginning to flag.

All he has done is stand stolid beside the door at parade rest, a hand on the hilt of his sword, and listened.

The Queen has been pacing, as she is wont to do, and the King is sprawled backwards in his chair, leaned onto the back two legs of it. They have reached what amounts to a moment of pause amidst the rest of the chaos, and it is into this that Relius clears his throat. “Your Majesty, how is your head?”

“Intact,” the King replies, not opening his eyes. “Unfortunately. I am certain that there are plenty among your number who would it had been a permanent removal of my crown.” He pauses. “Literally.”

A few laughs spread around the table, but more of exhaustion than anything. “Careful,” Gen continues, cracking one eye and tilting his head toward where the Queen is pacing in front of the windows, her powerful shoulders straight, her posture narrow and dangerous, as it always is. “I have it upon good authority that, while the horse cannot be turned into stew, there has been some discussion of removing any potential threats to me falling from the saddle.”

Costis has had this remarked to him before upon numerous occasions. He is not a man who is capable of keeping silent, even when he _by rights very much should be_. He sticks his neck out into situations where he should not. He constantly puts his foot in his mouth. It is probably a large portion of why the King likes him so much: someone in the room has to be dumber than he is. Or, perhaps, intelligence is not the issue here—perhaps it is more that Costis just _does not know when to quit_.

So that’s why Costis opens his mouth and says, before he can stop himself: “I do think everyone would appreciate the ensuing quiet, Sire.”

The council chamber is silent.

Costis, too late, realizes what has come out of his mouth, and stares, unblinking, at the wall opposite. He tries to run through some potential scenarios that could solve this problem, but nothing comes to mind. All that hits him is the overwhelming feeling of pure, unadulterated _mistake_ , solidified and crystalized from the fact that everyone is staring at him.

And then the Queen starts laughing. It is clear as a bell, delighted, amused, and Costis can feel his face heating already as her footsteps cross the room, her hand set gently on the fold of his elbow. This is not the relative safety of her own bedroom, where he sits crouched at her and the King’s feet; here he is a guard, and not one who can idly make inappropriate threats above his station. He remembers _very_ well what happened the last time he tried doing that.

“Costis,” Attolia says, her voice low with a hum that burrows into Costis’ bones and speaks of _what is coming to him_ in a way that he is very much interested in. But that he shouldn’t be; not during a Privy Council meeting. “I believe you have spoken beyond your place.”

“Yes, my Queen,” Costis manages. He still does not dare look at her, because he can tell she is smiling indulgently at him. “What shall you have me do?”

“Certainly not strike my husband’s crown from his shoulders, however much I should find the spectacle diverting. Perhaps...” and the Queen’s voice trails off. “Yes,” she says, abruptly, her fingers crawling further up Costis’ arm until they are at the top of his bicep. He inhales a quick, sharp breath. “Perhaps...my King,” she says, not turning to the King, “Have you ever considered that perhaps what you needed was a _willing_ steed? I think, with the proper incentives, you could indeed learn to ride _very_ well.” Costis bites the tip of his tongue until it’s almost bleeding to avoid letting his face show any emotion at all. “If we could find such a mount for the King, why, I do believe we would never again need fear his untimely demise on the part of put-upon pack animals, do you not think so, dear Costis?”

Costis is almost certain that this is what eternal torment is like. He clears his throat. Takes a few deep breaths. “Yes,” he manages, and his voice does not crack. He can feel everyone staring at him. “That sounds like a very good plan, my Queen.” Her fingers squeeze his bicep.

“I wonder where I could find a _horse_ like that,” the King murmurs, thoughtfully. “I don’t think Sounis could provide a proper mount. Costis, do you know where I could find such a steed?”

“No, Sire.” His voice does not crack. Costis still does not look down at the King or the Queen. Sweat is crawling down the back of his neck. The Privy Council is silent, watching him squirm. They all _know_  of course, and that is like as not the best part. For them, at least. For the amused audience. For Costis, the prime player in the farce, it is nothing but torture. “I shall give it some thought, my King, and tell you later should I think of an appropriate mount.”

“I,” the King says, his voice low and dangerous, “am certain you will find one.”

 

 

It’s only that night, after Eugenidies has done the equivalent of _riding him and putting him away wet_ , that Costis gasps for breath, and finally breaks: “I take it back. You ride a proper mount with exceeding care, Gen.”

Gen pinches the inside of his shaking thigh. Costis accepts it as his due.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr/twitter @jonphaedrus


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